The Woes of Mr Malfoy
by Rienna Hawkes
Summary: A tale in which Mr. Malfoy plays a reluctant conciliator to Mr. Weasley and Miss Granger.


**Author's Note:** This plot bunny has two parents. The first is **belovedranger**'s exceptional oneshot _Unfortunately, It's True_, a ficlet which is about Ron and Hermione but narrated by Draco. The other is **Makani**'s commissioned fanart depicting Harry and Draco as Auror partners. The idea cracked me up (best buddy-cop movie ever!) and before I knew it, this little story had spawned itself in my head and I had to write it. I hope you enjoy!

_**The Woes of Mr. Malfoy**_

_by: Rienna Hawkes_

_A tale in which Mr. Malfoy plays a reluctant conciliator to Mr. Weasley and Miss Granger_

_**Chapter One: **__In which Mr. Malfoy rescues a drunken damsel_

Draco Malfoy was not the sort of man to go out of his way for others. As his grandfather, a fastidious pragmatist and shameless miser, would have said, it was not cost-effective. This was most particularly so with those who could not repay the debt, and of those not worthy of the help in the first place. His grandfather would have been ashamed of him tonight.

He had gone out for a drink following a fairly grueling training session, doubt seeping into yet another of his brilliant plans. He was rather beginning to wonder if all of his life would be spent in over his head. He had submitted his school records and applied to the Ministry's Auror Academy despite his parents' protests. Lucius and Narcissa, though publicly and loudly appreciative of having been spared Azkaban for their eleventh-hour renunciation of the Dark Lord, behind closed doors were every bit as vocal about wanting nothing whatsoever to do with Kingsley Shacklebolt's "New Ministry" of (to hear his speeches) "Promise" and "Equality". But Draco had finally learned a lesson his parents had not: adaptation. Indeed it was his family's fear of change and the refusal to see it reflected in the world around them that had shaped their philosophy and ethics. And where had it got them? In the past year they had tumbled down the proverbial hierarchal steps and were heaped in an inglorious pile at the bottom.

Draco still prized the dogmas of his parents; they were the ideals that had shaped him after all—ideals that had shaped far greater men than he. But there was something Draco valued more than bloodlines or the right to practice the Dark Arts. That something was survival. His parents may be secluded enough to have not noticed the noose tightening on longstanding pureblood lobbyists, but Draco had. They may not be in Azkaban now, but that was unlikely to hold if there weren't considerable steps toward assimilation. Draco's joining the Auror Academy served a dual purpose: it calmed those worried that the Malfoys were spearheading a rebellion, and it put Draco in a position to gather and neutralize potentially disastrous information before it could harm those he loved.

That was the plan on parchment. The plan in practice had made him a laughingstock and object of contempt amongst his former Hogwarts housemates, had dropped him in a training regimen for which even Death Eater initiation had not prepared him, and had made him roommate of Ronald "the Great Wanker" Weasley. That last bit was what he had least bargained for and what was driving him to drink out every night rather than go home.

The Aurors in training lived on campus in dormitories and were forbidden overnight visitors, especially those of the opposite sex. But his roommate and his roommate's girlfriend were two members of the great and golden trio. They had never followed rules before, to the best of his knowledge, so there was little reason for them to start now. This led to Draco not only living with a Muggle-lover and a Mudblood he particularly hated, but also with a couple who squabbled more than any he'd ever seen.

Of course Draco had witnessed them fight before, at Hogwarts. He'd witnessed it a lot (in the halls, at the breakfast table, in the middle of Potions class…). He had thought he understood, but the truth of the matter was he'd had no idea.

"Ron, the sealing charm on this milk is broken. I'm throwing it out."

"Wait," the awkward oaf made a grab for the jug. He sniffed slightly, twisting his features into an unconvincingly thoughtful expression before taking a swig.

"Ron! That's rotten," she was swatting him on the arm with one hand and grasping to take the jug from him with the other.

He held the milk out of her reach, "It's not quite turned. There's a bit of a wonky aftertaste, but it'll work for porridge."

"No, it will not—you'll be ill." The bushy-haired bint then seemed to remember that she had a wand, "_Accio_ milk jug."

But he was holding onto it with all his might. "I've had dodgy milk loads of times, Hermione, and I've never been sick."

"Ronald!" her voice took on a shrill quality and it may or may not be Draco's biases coloring his memory, but he could swear she'd stamped her foot.

Whether a reaction to having his proper name shrieked at him or that he was simply bested by the strength of the summoning spell, the freckled git lost his grip on the jug and it flew at his girlfriend—who was no longer prepared for it.

The allegedly rancid milk splattered all over her face and hair, some of it even splashing in her mouth.

Weasley had gawked at her, one comical expression passing over his face after another: alarm, concern, amusement (when she began spitting), and finally fear, once it dawned on him that he might be in trouble for this—though, in Draco's opinion, the blame in this instance could almost be spread equally.

Weasley had hunted desperately for a towel and found one held out to him by Potter (who might as well have lived there too, even though the pillock's own dorm was just two doors down). The bespectacled twat had been sitting at the counter on a barstool, eating a bowl of porridge (no doubt moistened with the dubious milk) and behaving as though there was absolutely nothing out of the ordinary in any of this.

And, as Draco learned, quite horrifyingly, there wasn't. That could be any given morning with the sanctimonious couple. Or rather, any morning but that morning.

Draco had woken to the sounds of a roaring row past half of one that morning. What the lout and his chit were doing awake at that hour when he and Draco had combat curse training at six, Draco could scarcely speculate. He couldn't imagine that prudish cow being one for all-night shags, though in truth he'd never given it much consideration. Mudbloods engaging in reproduction was something he regarded with horror and unbridled repugnance—indoctrinated true, but genuine nonetheless. And Merlin knew that Weasleys didn't just fornicate, they bred. Draco shuddered at the thought.

He hadn't listened to the fight. Instead he had rolled over, tossed an Imperturbable at his door, and gone back to sleep. Perhaps he might have been more curious—but he had combat curse training at six. Ridiculous melodrama, no matter how well preformed or how inexplicably entertaining, was not worth his sleep.

Breakfast had been uncharacteristically quiet, though Weasel did seem surlier than Draco had ever seen. Despite himself, he did find he was intrigued when Broklehurst approached his roommate at lunch saying simply that he had bumped into Hermione running from the building in tears on his way back from the pub and was everything all right? Weasley had not answered, just punched the man squarely in the jaw, and stormed from the room.

Taking this into account, Draco supposed that he shouldn't have been surprised to run into Granger at the pub tonight. There had been constant bickering daily, but the row she'd had with her boyfriend last night transcended harmless banter and had crossed into the territory of relationship-threatening. Draco had never imagined the good little Gryffindor would drink—from the way she would hound Weasley about his alcohol consumption, one could only conclude the twit still thought she was a Hogwarts prefect. Still, there she had sat, a table all to herself. She had files and books spread across the wooden surface, empty wine bottles littering the parchments. Only Granger would bring her work to the pub to get pissed.

When Draco had first caught sight of that rat's nest she called hair, he had briefly considered finding another establishment to patronize, but then his jaw had hardened. This place was his favorite and he refused to be chased from it by his roommate's girlfriend. This sort of rebellious pride got him into trouble every time; he should have listened to his instincts and never taken a seat at the bar, but really, that was stinksap in the pail from where he stood now.

He had sat there nearly fifteen minutes, smoking his cigar, nursing his brandy and listening to the Wanderers/Magpies match on the Wireless, when Granger was suddenly at his side. It was a moment before he realized it, but the scratch of ankle-length wool robes and a whiff of that magnolia blossom scented soap she kept in _his_ bath announced her. She was speaking in that grating bossy voice, albeit slightly slurred, to the patron about the rowdy Quidditch fans at the table behind hers distracting her from her work, gesturing with the bottle of wine she held in her hand. The man was staring at her with incredulity that became annoyance as he wiped glasses. She hadn't noticed Draco yet and he turned away, trying to hide his face with his hand so she wouldn't see him. But it appeared his luck was still on sabbatical.

"Draco?"

He physically winced at her use of his given name. He had never given her leave to use it, had in fact demanded on several occasions that she not, but she insisted that it was ludicrous not to be on the first name basis given the proximity in which they were living and had requested that he address her as "_Hermione_". Draco, Weasley, and Potter had stared at her as though she had taken complete leave of her senses. Did seven years of open animosity mean nothing? Who did that Muggle nit think she was?

"Draco," she repeated.

He did not answer or look at her, hoping that if he just ignored her she would leave. But, of course, it couldn't possibly be that easy. Instead of wandering back to her stacks of parchment, books, and petitions for the betterment of Elfish Welfare she was preparing for the Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures where she was interning for the summer before Hogwarts started up again in September, she sat down on the barstool beside his.

"Have…have you seen Ron today?"

Draco did not react.

"I suppose you would've had to—what with all those lessons you have together," she answered her own question. No small feat as it seemed she'd downed a large quantity of elderflower wine and Draco could smell it on her breath even though he was facing away from her. Her logic was clearly fuzzy and she was speaking with incredible care, doing everything in her power to enunciate. "Did he seem upset?"

After a pained silence, she added, "I've been just sick about it all day."

Gritting his teeth in frustration, Draco finally turned toward her, giving her his very best "go the fuck away" look, but Granger was too far gone and took his acknowledgement as proof they were having a conversation.

"He thinks I'm a whore."

Now that was interesting. Had Weasel _called_ her that?

"Or, really, his mother does."

That sounded like a conversation for which Draco might pay tens of…Knuts to be a Billywig on the wall.

"Well, she thinks Charlie's girlfriend is." This was making less and less sense. Who the hell was Charlie? "Because they're living together." Ah, things were becoming clearer. "Ron is ashamed to tell his mother about us—but we're not living together. I'm letting a room at the Leaky Cauldron." This was news to Draco; the chit had somewhere else to go and she _chose_ to sleep with Weasley? "I pay room and board and everything." Well, that was truly a waste of money—but then she wasn't paying Draco and Weasley rent so he supposed she should pay someone, even if it was just to house a room with a bed gathering dust and a closet full of empty clothes hangers. Granger was obviously deluding herself.

A cheer went up around the bar and Draco remembered the match. Goddamn it. What had possessed him to actually listen to the inebriated disgrace to Wizard blood beside him rather than the game? It took only a cursory survey of the room to conclude that Harris had caught the Snitch. He cursed, suddenly grateful he hadn't had time to put money on the Magpies.

There was a wet sniff beside him, and he looked back over at Granger. Was she fucking crying? This was just getting worse and worse. He took a protracted, calming puff of his cigar and resolved to get the hell out of this conversation and this third-rate pub that allowed entrance to weepy Mudbloods.

"Lass?" an irritated voice came from over her shoulder.

Draco saw three men had gathered behind Granger. She turned to face them with the deliberately steady movements of someone intoxicated wishing to appear more poised than they had the coordination to be. "Yes?" she answered, looking up at a man twice her size, eyes shining from her tears.

"We'll be needing ya to move yer mess. Our mates here have nowhere to sit."

She was distracted. Good. Draco motioned the patron over and requested his bill. True he could just get up and walk out with Granger's attention fixed on him, but then there was always the chance that she would follow. It would be better to slip away when she was otherwise occupied.

He eyed the bill, resting his cigar in his mouth while he calculated a five percent tip (as his father had always said, nothing beneficial could come of encouraging mediocre service), and reached into his pocket for the money. Plunking it down on the table, he raised his snifter to finish his drink.

Draco had only just registered that the noises to his right had become a mite rowdy when someone rammed into his back. He choked on the amber liquid, and felt it slosh down his chin. He was knocked again as he made an attempt to rise from his perch on the barstool, his foot entangling itself with one of the wooden legs.

This was wholly unacceptable. Without hesitation, Draco reached behind him and jerked the collar of his attacker to the side. In one motion, he rose to his feet, flipped the assailant around, and slammed him down face-forward on the bar. As the man groaned, Draco couldn't help but take a moment to admire his handiwork; Auror training may be excessively arduous, but it was effective.

He took stock of himself and snarled inwardly. His waistcoat was crème colored hand-woven Chinese silk. And now it was ruined. Viciously, he lifted his captive up a few inches before pounding him down on the bar again.

There was a tap on his shoulder—a tap Draco's newly developed instincts told him would lead to an attack. Leaving one hand to pin the first man on the bar, he spun with his other to punch the second man in the face.

"Aw!" Draco recoiled, shaking his hand as his knuckles burned. The man he had hit was staggering and holding his bleeding nose, but Draco was already regretting taking that particular mode of assault—it hurt too much for his self-pampering sensibilities.

"What is your problem?"

Draco looked up to see a third man glaring at him, but clearly too intimidated to approach. He narrowed his eyes. "You cretins accosted me, so I might ask you the same question."

The man spread his palms. "Our quarrel was with the lady," he gestured.

Draco's eyes widened. Sprawled on the polished wood floor in a puddle of wine sat Granger. She was gazing up at him slightly dazed, a tiny smile playing at her lips. Merlin, she was a daft drunk.

"We didn't hurt her," the man continued quickly. "She fell off her stool and Ed jumped back and bumped into you, then she kicked him…and knocked him back into you again."

"You!" the patron was approaching the scene, his face purple with fury. "Get out!" he addressed Draco.

Draco sighed. He supposed this was to be expected—at this stage in his life, he was well used to no one looking at things from his side. _Well_,_ doesn't this just make tonight perfect_, he thought. He roughly released the neck of the man he was still holding down on the bar.

"And take your girlfriend with you."

He stared at the patron for a full minute in confusion before he realized to whom the man was referring. Then he was horrified. His _girlfriend_? Didn't this fool know what she was? Didn't he know _who_ Draco was?

"She's not my girlfriend," he spat, his voice permeating his revulsion of the very idea.

"I don't care," the patron declared, completely missing the point. "Just take her and get out."

"Wait!" Granger called out. She was pulling herself to her unsteady feet using the barstool from which she had fallen. "I need to get my work," her speech was more slurred than it had been before, as though she had stopped trying to monitor the way words exited her mouth.

She trudged her way to the table where she had been sitting before, listing to the left more than once only to right her path after she had bumped into a chair or table. The men around him were watching Draco expectantly as Granger stacked her books and papers; they seemed of the opinion that he should be helping her. Defiantly, Draco leaned back against the bar and folded his arms. They could think whatever they liked, there was no circumstance in which he would carry Granger's books for her.

Everyone jumped, however, when she accidentally knocked a half-empty bottle to the floor and it shattered. Wine and glass shards splattered the surrounding customers, and Draco raised an eyebrow, suddenly feeling sorry for Weasley. She was unseemly and discommodious in public.

"Whoops," she giggled drunkenly.

The patron was livid. Turning to Draco he warned, "If there is damage to the floors, I'm sending you the bill."

Draco sneered, "And I will pass it along to her pauper of a boyfriend and we'll see if you ever get your money." This night out had gone on too long, and had been anything but a release. "I'll see you at the flat," he told Granger.

"No," she challenged. She had reached his side and she was attempting to balance all her books with her limited agility. "I've had too much to drink."

That went without saying.

"I shouldn't be Apparating. You need to take me with you."

He blinked at her.

"Side-along," she elaborated. And then, _without permission_, she reached out and took his hand. He made to pull away immediately, but she managed to hold on to him.

Realizing that it was unlikely he would be able to extricate himself without another scene, and that Potty and Weasel would have his head on a pike outside his dormitory door if he let the nit splinch herself, Draco resigned to his task. His face scrunching up involuntarily as though the smell of her disgusting blood was wafting off of her, he closed his eyes and concentrated.

He had better be earning some incredible karma for this.


End file.
